


Art History

by Glishara



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold, White Collar
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/pseuds/Glishara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal Caffrey shows up at an Imperial art exhibit, Simon Illyan knows he's being played.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art History

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously cannot believe I just wrote 2300 words of a White Collar/Vorkosigan crossover fic. I am nuts.

He was being played.

He knew it from the first moment of eye contact, the first little smile. Simon Illyan had seen hundreds of thousands of liars in his time, and he remembered every one. He remembered all the secret tells, all the details of behavior that were slightly off, and he had become very, very good at spotting them.

This man was trying to play him.

It was an amusing thought, in its way; Simon didn't get many amusements in his line of work, so he had to get his money's worth out of each one. Most people wouldn't dare try this with him; this one had balls. And he was looking directly at Simon, with a direct, forthright expression and a slightly embarrassed smile.

Simon accessed his memory chip and found the name the man had provided: Steven Tabernacle, Beta Colony. An art historian, invited in for the unveiling of Vlad le Savante's portrait collection, newly returned to Imperial hands. Simon had skimmed the file, and could review in more detail at his leisure, but did not have time now. Tabernacle was approaching.

"Elegant crowd here tonight," he said in greeting.

"It is," agreed Simon, playing out the time. He let himself smile very briefly, let his eyes scan across the room. He could review Tabernacle's expressions later, replay the nuances. For now, he was the Chief of Imperial Security, guarding the party and being polite to a guest. A probably tipsy guest, he thought. Not that he imagined Tabernacle was actually tipsy, but he judged that to be the impression the man was trying to project.

"Not really our kind of scene," Tabernacle confided, leaning in to avoid being overheard. "I always feel out of my depth at this sort of thing. I'm not sure how I managed to earn a place on the guest list."

"I am certain everyone on the Emperor's guest list was carefully chosen, sir." Simon played bland soldier. Simon waited for the play.

Tabernacle leaned forward and touched his elbow lightly. "I'm sure they were at least well vetted," he murmured in Simon's ear.

Startled, Simon met his eyes. Tabernacle smiled.

#

"There's something more on Tabernacle," Simon said into his headset. "Track him back. Check the retinal scans for signs of tampering. I want to know who he is."

"Do you want us to pull him out of the exhibition, sir?"

"No." Simon glanced around, looking for Tabernacle. He spotted him over near a classical portrait of Lady Ivana Vorhovis, painted nearly three hundred years ago. Tabernacle was inspecting it with a critical eye and murmuring to a member of the Escobaran ambassadorial staff.

"No, sir?" Captain Vortala was surprised.

"No. Just get back to me as soon as you know anything."

"Understood."

Simon paced along the edge of the room, passing within an arm's length of Lady Alys Vorpatril. "Good evening, Lady Alys," he said as she paused.

"Good evening, Captain Illyan," she replied. "I trust there are no problems tonight?"

"Nothing that should disrupt the event," he said. "What do you know about Steven Tabernacle?"

Surprised, she followed his gaze over to the Betan. "Not very much," she said. "He was on Escobar, studying with Dr. Oscar Pulido. Dr. Pulido was on our guest list as a matter of course, so we extended an invitation to Mr. Tabernacle."

"All right," said Simon. Lady Alys knew him well enough not to press for more information, letting him drift along the wall towards Tabernacle.

"…the tone of the blues, you see, here and here. Yves Vorvayne was a true master of his art, done entirely by hand in a time without technological aids. Amazing."

The Escobaran woman was no art critic, and looked more interested in Tabernacle's ass than his assessment of Vorvayne, in Simon's practiced opinion. Tabernacle appeared familiar with the work, however: his analysis lined up well with the material he'd read. Simon had been viewing him as a potential spy, but was revising his opinion more towards _art thief_ as he listened. This was not surface-level analysis Tabernacle was delivering.

Tabernacle glanced up and met Simon's eyes over the Escobaran's shoulder. He smiled briefly, and Simon found he wanted to respond. So he did. There was an art to playing along with a con. One needed the ability to monitor the natural responses while letting them come, to ride herd on the thoughts and emotions without changing the outward indicators. Do too little, and the con knows you're wary. Do too much, and he knows you're playing along. One needed almost to have two storylines running simultaneously in one's head.

Fortunately, Simon was very good at that. He kept moving, letting himself glance back at Tabernacle but not otherwise changing his pace.

His wristcom beeped. "Illyan here."

"Captain, I've got a report off the name you gave," Vortala said.

"Give it to me."

"Neal Caffrey, sir. He is linked to the name Steven Tabernacle, and matches the retinal scans we took from Tabernacle when he arrived on-planet. He spent three years in Betan therapy for securities fraud, and was on trial on Vervain for racketeering and art theft, but the charges were dropped due to chain of custody issues on key evidence."

"Thank you, Captain Vortala," Simon said. He turned this new data over thoughtfully.

"Should we pull him out, sir?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Not yet, Captain Vortala. We will wait and see how this plays out. Detail a man to watch him in here, though, and another to watch me. He seems to have a game he wants to play. I would very much like to know what it is."

#

Tabernacle – Caffrey – had moved on from his discussion with the Escobaran, and was now examining a collection of miniatures on a central table. Simon moved around the edge of the room, pausing in Caffrey's peripheral vision to mouth a reprimand into his wristcom, no speech. He summoned up the annoyance of a man whose subordinates have failed in some petty but irritating manner and crafted a cutting insult, entirely wasted on the dead wristcom. He didn't know if Caffrey could read lips, but he would not take the chance.

He waited for an imagined response, snapped back a curt, "Do it, and correctly, this time," and let himself look around. His eyes met Caffrey's. The man had been watching. Simon rather hoped he _could_ read lips. It had been too good a line to waste on no audience. He'd remember it for another opportunity.

Caffrey smiled at him, and Simon let his lips twitch, imagined irritation still strong enough to keep it from a full-feldged smile. He turned away, but glanced back after a few seconds. Caffrey shrugged one shoulder at him, and Simon cocked his head a few degrees. They stayed like that a few seconds while Simon weighed the invitation. After a brief pause, he moved in Caffrey's direction, as if subtly. They both knew better. How deep did this game go?

"This sort of thing must be a nightmare for you," Caffrey said by way of a second greeting.

"Should it?" Simon asked. "Most people here seem to be enjoying it."

"Yes, but you're not a fan of art."

"And what makes you say that?" But Simon was smiling, allowing the point even as he challenged it.

"You're watching the people, not the paintings."

"That's my job."

"It must be an interesting one."

"Sometimes."

Caffrey grinned at him, open and artless. "How about now?"

 _My god,_ Simon realized belatedly, _is he trying to seduce me?_ Just what kind of gossip about him had reached Beta Colony? Or Escobar, or Vervain, he supposed. He had heard that one before, of course, but he'd never imagined it was so widely accepted.

Instead of answering, he half-turned to look down at the miniatures. "Louisa Vorfolse," he commented. "She fell at the beginning of the rationalist era, of which Vlad le Savante was a major patron. She was technically proficient, but lacking in emotional honesty."

"Ah, but you don't need to study to know that," Caffrey said, shifting a bit closer to him, reaching out a hand as if to trace a force dome over one of the miniatures, not touching it. "You only had to hear it once. I know all about your memory chip, Captain Illyan."

"And I know all about your securities fraud, Mr. Caffrey," Simon replied, tone dry.

Caffrey grinned at him, but Simon had seen the fractional hesitation. "But here we are," he said.

"Here we are," Simon agreed.

"You haven't arrested me," Caffrey pointed out.

"You haven't committed a crime," Simon answered. "Yet."

Caffrey held him eyes for a moment. "It's a naïve critique," he said at last. "You've been reading Ser Terrill, and he is overly harsh on the rationalists."

"Is he," Simon said, letting Caffrey shift the conversation.

"Yes," Caffrey answered firmly. "The core of rationalism is a return to geometric precision, and you can see that in the way Vorfolse does the lines of the arms and the positioning of her subjects. But to a student, the deviations from the geometric speak potently. Look at the set of that mouth, and the direction of the eyes." He paused, then reached for Simon's hand. "May I?"

Simon raised his eyebrows, but said, "By all means."

Caffrey took it and looked sideways at the painting, holding Simon's hand towards it. "Look at the fall of the patterns – here, and here. Find the natural shapes that lie beneath the image, and then look at the actual image. What do you see there?"

Simon looked down at the little painting, overlaying the path of his hand. He could not say exactly how he knew, but he felt it instinctively. "She's alone."

Caffrey smiled and dropped his hand. "Emotional honesty enough for me," he said.

Simon did not make any jokes about honesty. He was standing very close to Caffrey, their eyes locking. How far would this go?

He could feel Caffrey's breath on his skin.

Finally, Caffrey turned to look down again at the miniatures, reaching out as if to touch one, but pausing with his hand a few inches away. They were force screened, of course; he couldn't have touched it even if he had dared to try with Simon Illyan less than a foot away from him.

"Why do you need to be here for this?" Caffrey asked at last. "It seems a bit below your pay grade, if you'll pardon the expression."

"The Emperor came by earlier," Simon replied. "I had to be certain the location was secure."

"But he's gone now."

"Yes."

"So you could leave?"

"So you can accomplish whatever you're planning here?"

"Actually," Caffrey said, looking up to meet his eyes. "I was thinking of leaving myself."

Simon did not have long to measure reactions. How far was this man willing to go? How far was Simon willing to go? Caffrey's eyes were only inches from his, challenging, inviting. There was an art to playing along with a con. You needed to monitor the natural responses while letting them come. Simon wanted to respond to that invitation. "I'll meet you outside in five minutes."

#

Caffrey was leaning against the wall a few buildings down. Simon couldn't spot the ImpSec tail, which was good – he'd have had to construct a particularly biting lecture if his man was so easily spotted. He approached, hands in his pockets. "Mr. Caffrey," he said, "I'm not sure what –"

"Call me Neal," said Caffrey, and stepping into him. One hand lifted as if to touch Simon's graying hair, and he paused for a full second, head tilting slightly in question -- _Should I stop?_

 _No._

Caffrey's hand wrapped around the back of his neck, and Caffrey's mouth was on his, and Simon felt alive in a way he hadn't in too many years. _Well,_ the detached part of his mind observed dryly, _this will surely give the gossipmongers new fodder._ But it was a distant thought. And while Caffrey was with him, Caffrey was not back inside. He was keeping very, very close watch on the suspect.

The suspect spent the night not entirely demurely in his hotel room. With a companion.

#

"Did you get it, Mozz?"

"Yes," the other man, who was decidedly not Douglas Walters, said, sounding petulant. "But I think I threw my back out carrying those trays around. Barrayarans are serious about their drinks. Those glasses weighed a ton." He rolled his shoulder, massaging the joint with his opposite hand.

Neal offered a hand. "Give."

They had taken separate shuttles and boarded the jump ship separately, meeting up only once they were past the first of the jump points. Neither had any problems getting off planet. Mozzie put the tiny camera into Neal's hand. "The resolution is really good on those," he said. "I could only get an angle on the borders in pretty bad lighting, though, so you'll have to judge colors based on comparisons."

"And you talked with Dodger?"

"I did," said Mozzie. "He is very interested in hearing your proposals at greater length. He'll be on Escobar in seven weeks."

"Excellent." Neal squinted down at the camera. He wouldn't be able to start working on the pictures for a few days, at least. It depended on whether they could find a good location to work on Komarr.

"Good job getting the walking vid recorder moved out," Mozzie said. "I didn't think anyone would be able to move him. He's terrifying."

"Oh, he's not that bad," said Neal absently.

"Well, I for one don't ever want to be back on Barrayar again," Mozzie said fervently. "How'd you get him out, anyway?"

"I just gave him what he wanted," Neal said.

"A… lover?" Mozzie said, skeptical.

Neal flashed him a grin. "A mystery."


End file.
